Page 47 of Protecting His Finch

I want to tell her. I want to tell her so badly that it hurts.

“Here’s the truth,” I say, my throat raw from the want of it. “I’d do anything to give you the life you deserve.”

“What life do I deserve?”

“Happy. Peaceful. Not on the run. Not chained to…”

Men like me. It almost comes out.

Instead, I say, “All this violence.”

Her lips press in a thin, stubborn line. “What if that’s not the life I chose for myself? I’ve been trapped in cages before, Archer. You, of all people, should know better than to put me in one.”

She’s not wrong. But this is a line I can’t cross.

“I have to pick up a couple things,” I tell her. “Then we’ll figure out Canada.”

Her brow is still creased, but the tightness around her lips softens at that. I’ve said we. We’re still a team. I’m not bailing on her yet.

“Okay,” she says, though she sounds uncertain.

I tilt in and kiss the side of her forehead—that small spot at the end of her eyebrow. Her body relaxes into me. I want to stay in this moment forever.

Then I hear the door open, and I straighten up. Finley, too, takes a step back.

“Sid,” I ask when he steps outside, “can I borrow your truck?”

It’s twenty minutes to the nearest bar.

A neon sign tells me that it’s open, even though it’s not even noon yet. The inside of the bar is dark and damp, like a cave, and when my eyes adjust, I can see movement from another patron at the bar—he’s probably been here all night.

I order a whiskey sour and ask the bartender if I can use his phone.

“Jacobi,” says the man on the other end.

“How’s the nose?” I ask.

There’s a pause on the line. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

“I know.” I twist the skewered cherries in my glass. “Is Catherine with you?”

Jacobi grunts. “What makes you think she’ll entertain the likes of you?”

“I’m ready to discuss a trade.”

Another pause. “Hold on.”

I can hear the muffled sound of discussion. Out of the edge of my vision, I see the barfly shuffle over to the jukebox. He puts on a crooning death rattle, which seems somehow fitting.

I listen as the phone changes hands. “I’m listening,” Catherine Rossi says. Her voice is sharp and precise, like a diamond.

“You want an eye for an eye,” I say. “Blood for blood. I’m willing to give it.”

“Go on.”

“Make an example out of me. Leave the girl out of it.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end as she considers this. I can hear my own heartbeat walloping in my chest. “You understand the deal you’re making,” she says slowly, carefully.

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